


ain't it a gentle sound, the rollin' in the graves?

by transantula



Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Other, another weird ramble inside a character's head, once again, this is such pretentious bs tho LMAO
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 06:24:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15924710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transantula/pseuds/transantula
Summary: "drowning his sorrows with another bottle, thoughts and illusions of love are quickly dismissed from erskine ravel's mind,"





	ain't it a gentle sound, the rollin' in the graves?

of course, erskine ravel knew of love, of the stories, happily ever afters and the honeymoons,

it's wonderful, the sensation, they'd say. the thrill of new love, the feeling of summer walks and the sun gaze of a lover on their face. the feel of another's hand in their own. that spark of a soon to be bonfire in their hearts.

  
these days, erskine didn't much feel much of that heat, if any. only baby embers glow where he treads now, and he's left nothing but ashes behind.

it's a dark and cold thing now, that has sunken it's claws into erskine's chest, that has turned his fingers and lips blue.  
this thing, made of urges to destroy and burn, its pure want, to snap his brother's necks, to kill anyone who would ever harm him, to betray.

drowning his sorrows with another bottle, thoughts and illusions of love are quickly dismissed from erskine ravel's mind.

urges rise again in his throat like acid bile, hours later. when the wind bites and digs it's nails into his flesh, when he opens up the flaps to the tent anton sleeps in. when he now currently lies flat in anton's arms, body aching and pent up emotions getting caught in his throat.

  
"are you alright, love?" anton whispers, shifting, low voice full of worry.

"m'fine," ravel replies, blunt and dull like the knives discarded in enemies chests, "just dandy," his voice is muffled from were he lies curled up in a nest of dirty cloths that just barely pass for blankets. anton just sighs and runs a hand through erskine's hair.

  
erskine lays there, words rattling around his skull, seeping in like blood soaking into the clothes of soldiers he shot down just yesterday in battle.  
he envys them all too much, the dead. they've been allowed to let go, they've escaped. no afterlife can be as bad as this, this bloody and fucked form of hell, ravel reckons. he's not a believer in anything these days, but there must be something up there laughing at them all.

  
how ironic, he thinks, a bitter laugh rises it's way to his lips. the dead men, the only ones left alive. because they have to be, they need each other, the war needs them. he tastes copper.

  
anton runs his hand along his lover's jawline, hand cupping his face. "okay" he sighs, not convinced, before curling up beside ravel, wanting, desperate, to help but knowing not to press, not tonight.

  
it isn't until he hears the soft snores of his lover beside him, does erskine allow himself to fully wallow. knuckles go white as he grips the edge of his blanket, memories of a dark cellar and bloodied knives creeping in from the darkest corners of his mind.

  
choked breath turns to a sob and a small laugh frees its way from his chest. the result is a mangled cry, akin to a dying animal, that of a child crying out for their parents, of a lover widowed. and hes not sure how to feel. if hes feeling at all. because his 'friends', his _brothers_ had abandoned him back then, had left him to die. and a part of erskine did perish down there, ripped apart by knives and flogs and just _too_ sharp smiles.

  
that night, he dreams of silk webs and the scent of rotting flesh.

**Author's Note:**

> i was actually nervous to post this one. 
> 
> comments are....... appreciated


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